The Black Tree. A poem.

The tree is black and formless,
its charred soul departed
so many years before
from this noxious darkness.
This fractured stump,
dreaming of chlorophyll
and carbon dioxide smells.
This burned and sullen timber
that in this wasteland dwells.

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Black Rain. A poem.

I watched the black rain
from my window.
It spilled down the pane
in tarry streaks,
a Malevich canvas.

I watched the flowers
gently steam and wilt.
The dark water spilled down
onto the road and into the gutters.
It flowed into the sewers and
thence to the sea.

There it merged with
chemicals, plastics, dead fish
and carcinogens,
taking its rightful place
amongst humanity’s leavings.

Black rain
spilled down my cheeks
in tarry streaks.

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